


Memorize the Way Your Soft Hair Ruffles

by Osprayhurricane



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2019-10-15 20:22:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17535605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Osprayhurricane/pseuds/Osprayhurricane





	Memorize the Way Your Soft Hair Ruffles

The night starts out with John and Sherlock going undercover as club goers, but it ends with the pair chasing a criminal across half the city. Not that John is complaining about getting to stare at Sherlock’s perky little ass all night as it sways in those tight little jeans oh so deliciously. All the men in the club had been doing the same thing. It was his turn now. 

But around 4 am, things take a change for the worse when the man and Sherlock fight briefly and the man falls off the roof of a building and brings Sherlock with him. John roars his name and makes it to the edge just in time to grab Sherlock’s hands clinging to the ledge. He hauls the pale detective upwards. Sherlock trembles softly as he’s clutched tightly against a hard broad chest.

For what feels like an eternity John simply holds him, his hands sifting through the feather-fine curls, simply playing with his hair as his deep voice murmurs through the night.

“Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.”

*****

Sherlock moves slowly, shivering still, as he walks inside. He knows he’s done wrong, but he is at a loss of how to apologize. John hasn’t stopped following him closely, except to grab a bottle of scotch and nearly polish it off, seemingly not willing to let Sherlock out of his sight, but the proximity is intimidating. Even now, inside, while Sherlock goes to examine a slide from earlier experiment, John stands so close behind him Sherlock can feel the heat of his body radiating off him. 

So close he can smell him. It's strong, sweat and scotch and dark musk: entirely _John._ The manly familiarity of that scent excites Sherlock. As if he's someone else he quickly turns around to face John. Cupping the man’s wide jawline with both hands, rubs his soft fingers across the rough stubble and enjoys the friction.

“John,” he whispers.

It looks like every muscle outlined through the tight dark blue shirt John is wearing shifts with extraordinary tension.

Sherlock knows he’s done it wrong. He’s messed it all up, again. He puts down his hands and turns back around, ready to retreat instantly to his room. Right then he feels a strong broad hand wrap around his hips, keeping him in place, sending an electric shock zinging up his nerves. A firm, how mouth suddenly descends on the back of his neck, pressing in for a single yet wet, hungry kiss.

John _isn't_ mad then?

Sherlock lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding; it dissolves into a short, high-pitched giggle, that lasts only until John continues mapping out his smooth skin with his mouth.

John is barely aware of what he just did. For years he's kept himself contained and refused to acknowledge his lust for Sherlock. Now, however, that he's finally given into his desires and has the taste of Sherlock's sweet skin in his mouth, -something akin to ambrosia - John finds he couldn't stop if there was a gun at his head. He starts devouring the delicate nape of his neck, and in doing so a delicious moan escapes Sherlock’s lips. 

John’s voice behind him whispers sensually, “Such pretty little sounds you make.” He continues kissing up and down the long pale thin neck, sending shivers down Sherlock’s spine, working to the most sensitive spots, until he tosses his head back on John’s shoulder to encourage more. Suddenly what John thought would be a night of him yelling and Sherlock complaining has turned into something altogether different. No longer eager to learn Sherlock's excuses John is now desperate to ravage the younger man with pleasure and tear him sweetly apart.

“Christ. I was furious at you, Sherlock...but God. Fuck but you’re beautiful. And beautifully sensitive. Let’s forget about the case, I want to break you down, okay?”

John’s arm tightens around his waist when Sherlock makes a strangled noise and nods his curly head instantly. 

“Good. I'm taking you to bed then.” John’s commanding voice growls out of his throat as he crowds Sherlock until he's in his own bedroom and suddenly pinned to the mattress with his solid, heavy soldier's body atop of him.

And with the gasp Sherlock makes, John quickly takes control and starts to play with the full, pink plush lips, biting and sucking, seeking for entrance and without hesitation. Sherlock welcomes him in. Their tongues have a quick battle for dominance, but John’s strength is too arousing, and Sherlock gives in and lets John brake him down. John practically rips off his and Sherlock’s clubbing attire. Sherlock bites his lips and arches his back at seeing the exposed hard muscles of John’s bronzed chest. 

John's hard cock tents obscenely through his black boxers and

 

 

 

 

“Do it again, Sherlock,” John commands, referring to the arching stretch of Sherlock’s lithe body underneath him.

 

Sherlock's _prick_. Sherlock had a prick, had an erection that he could feel, hard, against his belly, mirrored precisely by the hardness in John’s trousers. It was almost uncomfortable, no, it _was_ uncomfortable, and John could be distracted by the taste of a long-desired mouth or the feel of smooth skin for a while, but his cock was full and hard and he _wanted_ him; the desire was cresting, and would not be ignored for long.

They stepped apart, briefly, and held each other’s eye, mouths parted and chests heaving. By some unspoken agreement, their hands move to the waists of their own trousers. John fumbled with the buckle of his belt—his hands weren’t working well, and he did not want to look away from Sherlock’s face, so he worked by feel.

Sherlock, though, had looked away from John’s face and was apparently riveted by the sight of John’s hands unbuckling his belt and releasing the button of his flies. His own hands had stilled, he’d only got as far as unhooking the fastening of his trousers, and he watched, avidly, while John’s hands worked at his jeans.

John got as far as lowering his zipper before Sherlock lost patience completely. He batted John’s hands out of the way, parting the fabric of his jeans and reaching into the soft cotton of his pants, and John had only a split second to realise what Sherlock had in mind before he felt the touch of Sherlock’s fingers.

It was electric. It was _explosive,_ and John shouted at the first brush of that hand. _It’s so good, it’s so good,_ it was _so good,_ and John fell back again onto the door, unable to get a full breath or support his own weight unaided.

They were so close together. So close, with John’s back resting again on the old green door and Sherlock’s right hand slow and easy on his cock. With his left hand, he reached behind John’s neck and curled his fingers into the short hair at his nape. He brought John’s head towards him and pressed their foreheads together. John looked at his face and saw that Sherlock’s eyes were fixed on his own hand, moving on John’s prick, as if he couldn’t look away.

Sherlock stroked, stroked. His grip was firm, not hard but steady, unwavering, working towards its goal. The rising tides of pleasure took all of John’s attention so that when he realised Sherlock was talking, he wondered distantly when he had begun. Even once he noticed, it was hard for him to make out the words; whispered exclamations and endearments, perhaps, _good_ and _yes_ and _oh god_ and _John_ and words of such affection as John never expected to hear from Sherlock at all, ever, about anyone, least of all John himself, so that he could not quite believe he was hearing them at all. The string of words kept coming, but at times it was just his mouth, his lips working and moving at John’s temple, as if trying to kiss him but unable to coordinate. All the while his hand was steady and unrelenting on John’s cock, and John was lost, was completely incoherent, eyes tight shut and breathing erratic as his climax rose and rose within him.

And then Sherlock tightened the fingers on John’s neck, gave a clever twist on the upstroke, and whispered, “It’s always you, John,” and John gave a soft cry, and came into his hand.

The pleasure that shuddered through him was so much more than physical. He came, and gasped, and came, and somewhere in the middle of it he opened his eyes and saw Sherlock’s hand cradling him, smeared with his come, and the sight of it was so beautiful it almost hurt.

 

 

"God, you drive me crazy. Go on. “Provoke me Sherlock.”John's eyes grow hungrier and he sits back. Sherlock, undaunted by the

 

 

With that Sherlock’s eyes grew hungrily and his hands worked ten times faster. Taking my shit off in a flash and throwing me back down, Sherlock groan, “Off” his eyes pointing at my pants. I really admire his control, but I can pull a better commander than him. ‘Later’ I think. In less than ten seconds, both of us were left in our boxers. His hand move lower on my stomach while distracting me with the pressure of his lips on mine, he was already on the borderline of my boxers and skin. Teasing around my stomach and inner tights, I let out a deep moan, much like the first one.

“Good John…” Sherlock was already breathless, “again,” he repeats.

“Provoke… me…. Please” I whimper for him to stop teasing. Sherlock knows that if he wants to get what he wants, he will need to go to the next level. I raise my hip so he can pull them off, without losing a second he snatches my boxers out of my body. His hand moves slowly from my ankle to my inner thighs making me harder by the second.

“Sherl… aaahhmmmmh… please,” I moan, giving him what he wants. “Again, but deeper, John,” Sherlock answers to my lips and moves slowly to the border of my neck and shoulder and starts to violently kissing it; he is directly in my sweet spot, which makes me whimper only. In Sherlock’s desperation his hand grabs my cock tightly at the base, and slips his thumb over the tip of my cock and smear the moisture beading there, I whimper and clash my teeth together in a snarl at the feeling, my mind is an absolute mess as Sherlock grips my cock slightly harder and stroked it.

“Nightstand.” I manage to say. Sherlock knows the drill and stretches his whole body over mine to reach it. My hands, not bearing the lack of touching Sherlock, takes his waist and pull them down to my stomach; not letting Sherlock reach the lube, but my lips on his are always worth it. Sherlock forget what he was doing and concentrates on my our lips, while his hands explore my sensible nipples; making me moan on his lips, losing him; Sherlock takes advantage of my idiocy and grabs the lube.

“Talk…. to me… Sherlock.” I thirstily say. Changing the current kink. Dropping the commanding Sherlock and switching it to a most erotic kink.

“Talk dirty,” I say, when Sherlock is back to his position, on top of me. A hand on my chest and the other one teasing around my, already, harden cock. His smile grows into a predator’s ready to attack its prey. With this smile, I know this is going to be both fun and deliciously painfully time.

“I thought I knew how to behave, John.” Sherlock snakes from my stomach with his dirty voice, slowly making his way up to my face but stopping halfway on my chest, “but you turn me not a naughty freak.” He finally finishes it with some hard kisses on my now very sensible nipples. A very loud moan comes out of my mouth, from my desperation, I push Sherlock’s head deeper into my chest, needing to lose my mind to Sherlock. He leaves my chest burning and works his way down to my cock, now laying on my chest.

“I need something to lick, John, and your cock is screaming to get sucked.” Sherlock sensually says, and quickly takes me whole in his mouth. I hiss and arch to the wet sensation inside Sherlock’s mouth. His tongue is wrapping around it inside, my whole body is shaking and my mouth twists into an experience of ecstasy. Sherlock thrust his head up and down on my cock, sucking his check in like a fish, making it from base to top in a fast pace making my body send shocks up and down inside my body. Sherlock slows down the pace and finishes his last lick, with a twist of his tongue on the tip of my cock.

“Sherlock…hmmm… Oh God,” I moan somewhere along a groan and whimper.

“I swear, I will make you moan my name so loud, the neighbors will know my name.” Sherlock groans. Just with his words, a loud groan is forced out my lips. “Sherlock..” My mouth drops open to his name, my hands grabbing on the expensive bed sheets on the sides, arching my body up and pushing my hips up in the air, in frustration and desperation of the need of Sherlock braking myself down.

“I’m going to open you up John, for me.” Sherlock warns me while grabbing the bobble of lube he left next to him, “I’m going to drive you mad.” Pouring a good amount of lube on his palm and fingers.

“Sherlock… please... stop teasing… and fuck me!” I moan and order.

Sherlock started to circle my hole once more before he slowly pressed a finger in, my eyes roll shut, biting my bottom lip again, but God! It was maddening, nothing could possibly replace the feeling of Sherlock inside me. I groaned trying to adjust to the pleasant feeling.

“Yess….Sherlock, like that…” I moan loudly.

Sherlock withdraws his finger slightly before pushing it back, slowly repeating the action while I was losing my mind in front of him. Sherlock inserts another finger making me throw my head back with a moan.

“Mmm...More Sh….Sherlock.”

Sherlock growls and pumps three fingers slowly in and out; I grip him slickly and perfectly. I could feel Sherlock sweating and panting much like me.

“Your thoughts are driving you crazy, Sherlock. I KNOW IT….” I interrupted myself with an uncontrollable moan, feeling Sherlock’s hard cock gave a twitch at the true words that came out of my mouth. I’m a disjointed mess, basically fucking myself onto Sherlock’s fingers; I gasp and then suddenly cried out loudly as Sherlock’s fingers brushed up against my prostate.

“Oh god...Shit.....THERE! Oh God, do that again, please Sherlock...”

Sherlock found the small bundle of nerves again and crooked his finger slightly. I practically bark out a cry of pleasure and pressed back on Sherlock’s fingers, I was so fucking ready.

“Sherlock....Please.” A dark smile grows on Sherlock's face, so ready to break me apart.

 

Sherlock's hand trembles as it puts the key in the lock. The case was successful but now that it's over it means just one thing. 

Behind him John's heavy tread up the stairs tells Sherlock's apprehensive nerves John is tired and will no doubt return home shortly thereafter. 

"Would you like some whiskey?" Sherlock asks softly, careful not to show his desperation in not wanting John to leave. 

"Sure." John saunters over, not one to turn down good liquor. John is as always oblivious to know it but Sherlock Sherlock has lately always made sure to keep the most expensive alcohol he can at the apartment for his handsome John. 

 

Or, perhaps, and more logically perhaps, it was merely lust that fogged up Sherlock’s vision and cloaked his brain, with John tied up and perfect, splayed over Sherlock’s lap, stuffed full of his cock.

 

just holmes bony white hands gripping watson broad and still lightly tanned shoulders. everything is out of focus, holmes sweaty hair, the uneven and feral rhythm of watson thrusts. the only clear thing is holmes fingertips digging softly into his tender skin, let himself be destroyed by the same man that he clings to like a lifeline

 

John has nearly finished an entire bottle of scotch. Sherlock doesn't himself like to drink. He doesn't have the high tolerance for liquor John has and prefers not to vomit and fall unconscious. It doesn't mean he doesn't appreciate

John's voice- God, his voice is sexy in that gravel-rough rumble it gets when he's furious that throbs down Sherlock's spine. It sounds like pure sex right now.

John is short in stature, but his confident posture and piercing blue eyes make everyone else in the room shrink and fade away. He offers Sherlock a drink which is ludicrous because they are both already holding drinks, but Sherlock says yes anyway. They make their way to the kitchen and John takes a bottle of scotch out of a cupboard. He suggests they find someplace quiet and Sherlock cannot possibly agree more. Down a hallway they find an empty study, but it’s blocked by a set of glass French doors. Undaunted, Sherlock whisks back toward the party, only to return a moment later with a pair of hair pins. They’re inside within a minute and John is giggling and Sherlock is quite sure he’s never heard anything as beautiful.

They pass the bottle back and forth, swigging and grimacing (well, Sherlock grimaces, John enjoys the bite of peet and the warmth of smoke). They talk about school, where they’re from, their big plans for the future. John says he’s thinking about becoming a GP—a safe option his parents would approve of—and Sherlock calls him an idiot, tells him he should go into trauma medicine as he’d obviously prefer the high stakes. He’s not wrong, and John just blinks and whispers, _you’re brilliant._

It all gets a bit fuzzy after that.

The bottle of scotch is nearly empty, and John’s jeans and pants are bunched at his ankles. He’s got his face buried in plush carpet while Sherlock’s face is buried between his arse cheeks. John’s eaten his fair share of pussy, but he’s never been eaten out himself. And good God, what has he been missing out on? The slide of tongue and sloppy press of lips against his anus is exquisite. He wraps his hand around his aching cock, giving himself a channel to fuck into. He rocks his hips between the hungry mouth at his arse and his own squeezing fist, and goes blind with pleasure.

When Sherlock told John to roll over, when he’d hoisted up John’s hips and bared John’s arse to the air—he really hadn’t known what he was doing. He’d smoothed his hands up John’s thighs until his palms cupped John’s arse, then he’d tugged those firm cheeks apart, and revealed the sweet, furled bud of John’s anus. Now he knows why he did that. He was driven by a hunger he didn’t know he had. And, as it turns out, Sherlock is fucking ravenous. One swipe of his tongue from taint to tailbone, and he was hooked. John tastes like sweat and musk and man. Good God. And the sounds he makes! Low groans and high keens, like he wants more but it’s already too much. And now he’s wanking himself and Sherlock is going 'round the twist with need. Need to hear John come, need to pull himself off, need to never ever let this end.

John comes screaming into the carpet. The high pile absorbing both his voice and his semen. He feels the heat of Sherlock’s mouth disappear, but he’s only disappointed for a moment before warmth returns, this time in the press of thighs against his arse. John feels a hot, hard length slide between his cheeks and a muzzy panic flares up in his mind, but it flickers out when he realizes that Sherlock is rubbing himself off on the curve of his arse. His wet, well-eaten arse. Fuck. Behind him Sherlock is panting like a fucking horse. Wait… Is that the expression? Doesn’t matter. He’s panting and thrusting and John is too spent to do more than whisper words of encouragement. _Yes, Sherlock. Fucking come. Come on me. I want your spunk all over my back. Do it._

Sherlock comes harder than he ever has in his life. Semen arcs and splatters on the skin of John’s back—where his shirt had ridden up—and rolls in milky rivulets down the angle of his spine. He sinks back onto his heels, then reclines all the way to the floor. He stares up at the strange ceiling, desperately clinging to the lingering throbs of pleasure as unconsciousness creeps up on him. He falls asleep to the sound of John already snoring.

John’s buddies scrape him up off the carpet around 3 AM. He doesn’t get to say goodbye or even leave his number. You’d think someone with a name like Sherlock would be easy to find, but nobody seems to know him. He’s like a ghost. A phantom that ate his arse until he passed out from the pleasure.

Sherlock is nudged awake by a foot. It takes him a moment to get his bearings, and when he does he’s sad to find he’s alone. He asks the woman glaring down at him where John is, but she doesn’t know John and is much more concerned with Sherlock pulling his pants up and leaving her house, thank you very much. He meets a lot of John’s over the next two years at uni, but none of them have deep cobalt eyes and an arse like ambosia.

Years go by and John limps into a lab at the hospital where he’d once done his residency. God, those were simpler times. He’d been exuberant, passionate, optimistic. Now his future is bleak and biege, chafing at his broken edges. But then he hears _Afghanistan or Iraq_ in a deep rumble that reminds of something. A hazy memory. Their eyes meet across the room and everything else shrinks and fades away...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Yess….Sherlock, like that…” I moan loudly.

Sherlock withdraws his finger slightly before pushing it back, slowly repeating the action while I was losing my mind in front of him. Sherlock inserts another finger making me throw my head back with a moan.

“Mmm...More Sh….Sherlock.”

Sherlock growls and pumps three fingers slowly in and out; I grip him slickly and perfectly. I could feel Sherlock sweating and panting much like me.

“Your thoughts are driving you crazy, Sherlock. I KNOW IT….” I interrupted myself with an uncontrollable moan, feeling Sherlock’s hard cock gave a twitch at the true words that came out of my mouth. I’m a disjointed mess, basically fucking myself onto Sherlock’s fingers; I gasp and then suddenly cried out loudly as Sherlock’s fingers brushed up against my prostate.

“Oh god...Shit.....THERE! Oh God, do that again, please Sherlock...”

Sherlock found the small bundle of nerves again and crooked his finger slightly. I practically bark out a cry of pleasure and pressed back on Sherlock’s fingers, I was so fucking ready.

“Sherlock....Please.” A dark smile grows on Sherlock's face, so ready to break me apart.

“I want to see your face when you fall apart John.” Sherlock’s words make me stand on my shoulders and look him in the eyes deeply.

“Yes.. please... Sherlock” Sherlock oriented his cock to my entrance; looks up to meet my eyes; not separating them, Sherlock enters me slowly, but hard enough to make my body shake from head to toe. Unable to hold my eyes open I shut them close hard, throwing my head and shoulders boneless on the bed. Arching my back, while reaching my hip higher into Sherlock. With every thrust, there was a shock rolling through every limp in my body. Sherlock must have already remembered where my prostate is because on the third thrust he was there already. In between the heating moment, getting drunk on his moans and his groans; it ends up throwing me off the edge, making me come inside him, moaning his name out loud. A couple more thrusts for Sherlock to fall bonelessly on me. Our breathless bodies try to catch some air into our lungs to calm the heart rate before they run out of our body. I turn my head to look at him; his eyes are closed in the most pleasant way and a soft smile on his face, his chest still raises and falls at a fast rate. I push my lips on him, I give him soft and lazy kisses, like every time we finish do it.

“You are amazing, Sherlock.” I make a 180 rotation to face him and wrap my arms around him.

“You are fantastic, John,” Sherlock responds, looking at me in the eyes. We maintain eye contact for what feels like a comfortable eternity. Then Sherlock’s deep voice brakes the silence, “Let's go outside and get lost.” I keep looking at him, but now with a little confusion in my eyes.

“What?” I ask, making sure that Sherlock wants to go outside to humanity and just walk along until we get lost.

“Let's go outside and get lost, didn’t you hear me?” Sherlock’s sassy voice raises.

“I always hear ‘Let's go outside and get lost’ but it’s usually subtext,” I respond with sarcasm. Sherlock raises an eyebrow, then smiles and says, “Come on! We still got two hours to spear.”

“And you want to spend it, with humanity?” I ask, wanting to stay in the hotel.

“What?! No, I want to spend it with you.” Sherlock’s puppy eyes invade my eyesight, giving in to whatever he has on mind doing.

I laugh a little and say, “Whatever you want, love.” My lips meet his again, but this time Sherlock holds on to my face; so I stay and give him a big passionate kiss, enough for him to let me go before he gets a small brain shakedown.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

John goggles at it. “Is that – yours?!”

Sherlock gives a modest shrug. “So it would seem.” His lower lip is rosy and wet from John’s mouth and this only deepens John’s hunger to kiss him again.

He thinks unwittingly of Greg and the jealousy deepens, unreasonable as he knows it is. “Give that here,” he says. He gets the cap off it and Sherlock squeezes a generous amount into his palm, then puts it back on the table, watching him almost warily.

Or maybe it’s just expectantly. John rubs some on himself, his cock so hard it’s fit to burst, then looks down as he strokes the rest over Sherlock’s unfairly perfect cock. It  _is_. It could be a bloody model for cock sculptors or something, its form and length and girth all as perfectly proportioned as the rest of him is, and it moves in his hand as he strokes it, flushed and full and quivering against his palm. Sherlock swallows audibly and John glances up at his face. Sherlock’s lips are parted, exhalations gusting over them as John touches him, the colour high in his cheeks.

Well. At least he’s not totally out of his depth, then, even not having touched any cock other than his own before. He’s glad to see that Sherlock seems to like it, and goes a little harder. “Like this?” he asks, his voice low and as seductive as he knows how to make it.

Sherlock nods, his eyes finding John’s and locking onto them. He reaches down and takes John’s hand, shifting it lower, his knees falling open, his eyes on John’s the entire time, and when John gets it, it hits him like a load of bricks.

“You want me to – ?” he asks, but he already knows the answer.

Sherlock nods again and swallows. “Please,” he requests, and the single word nearly undoes John completely, because there’s literally not one damned thing that he wants more than this.

He clears his throat. “Yeah. Okay.” He keeps his eyes on Sherlock’s as he starts, his lube-covered fingers massaging his hole, then slipping inside, first one, then another. God. The heat of Sherlock’s body is unexpected, the grip around John’s fingers intoxicating. Sherlock is breathing hard, sweat gleaming on his forehead, but he doesn’t seem to want it to go any more slowly. John’s three fingers deep when Sherlock produces a condom from somewhere, the crinkly packet suddenly there at the heel of John’s hand. John looks at it, the questioning dying on his lips even before he can ask it. That confirms Sherlock’s intention beyond question, then. “Yeah, all right,” he mumbles, agreeing to the condom. “Who even knows who you’ve all been with?”

Oops. He didn’t quite mean to say that out loud, but Sherlock travelling with lube and condoms makes him feel even more jealous than he did before when he was overtly flirting with Greg. Did he come here hoping to score with someone? Another conference guest or something like that? He glances at Sherlock, ripping the condom packet open with his teeth, hindered by his slippery fingers, and only just catches the shadow of a flinch cross Sherlock’s face. Should he say something? John opens his mouth, debating it, then decides he doesn’t want to kill the mood. Just push past it, then.

“How do you want to do this?” he asks instead, reaching for Sherlock’s cock again. “Like – this?”

Sherlock hesitates, then turns onto his front, dislodging John’s hand. “Perhaps this would be – easiest,” he says, his words slightly muffled, his knees bent under him, arse elevated, his face down on the sheets.

“Okay,” John says. He can hardly believe this is happening. The warm, golden light from the bedside lamp seems to match the warm, golden glow of the wine and arousal coursing through his body. He fits himself into the space between Sherlock’s knees, guiding his cock to the heat of Sherlock’s body, bending over him. “You ready?” he asks, lowering his voice, his mouth close to Sherlock’s ear.

Sherlock nods. “Please,” he says again, and the word practically guts John again.

He pushes himself as slowly as he can make himself go into Sherlock, that same grip he felt on his fingers convulsing and shuddering around his cock. It’s the best thing he’s ever felt in his life and he’s biting his lip to keep from losing his load on the spot. He looks down to see Sherlock’s perfect arse stretched around him and moans at the very sight of it. He’s buried to the root now and Sherlock’s back is heaving as he pants against his arms. “You all right?” John gasps out, only just barely holding it together.

Sherlock makes a sound which John can’t decipher one way or the other. “Just – give me a moment,” he gets out.

“Oh – of course,” John says, stroking Sherlock’s sides as the muscle spasms begin to let him. After a little, Sherlock assents, and then it really starts, slowly at first, John’s entire body shuddering as Sherlock’s body squeezes around him, then faster and faster as his need to go deeper and harder mount rapidly, his entire body aflame with desire. It’s a blur, the grip of Sherlock’s body around his aching cock, the sounds of their bodies slapping together, the tightening noose of the pleasure circling his limbs and torso and especially his cock. John’s thrusting frantically, drowning in how incredibly good it feels, and they’re both moaning loudly – he reaches down to find that Sherlock’s already jerking himself off, but he relents in a huffed exchange of question-and-assent and lets John do it, burying his face against his arms as John’s fist flies over him.

Sherlock’s entire body spasms hard and then he’s filling John’s fist with hot fluid, breath choking out of him in shuddering gasps, and that does it – John grips Sherlock’s left hip with his other hand and plunges into him four more times, and on the fourth it happens, the orgasm bursting out of him like a rocket launching, flooding out of him and into the condom. He’s still thrusting all through it, more and more of it coming out of him even as Sherlock’s cock goes on jerking and spasming in his hand.

When it’s finally over, John finds himself slumped onto Sherlock, weak and spent as a limp rag. He grabs for the top of the condom, holding it in place as he pulls himself out of Sherlock at last, and turns halfway backward, dropping it into what he hopes is the bin, but he doesn’t really care. He turns back to Sherlock, curling himself half-around, half-on top of him, his arm around Sherlock’s chest, pinning him to himself. “God, you’re phenomenal,” he slurs into the back of Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock makes a deeply-contented, sleepy sound, and finds his fingers, slipping his between John’s. “You, too,” he says, his voice unusually deep and mellow.

John pushes a thigh between Sherlock’s, pressing it up into his spent balls, loving the soft warmth of them against his skin. “You okay?” he murmurs, his eyelids sagging.

Sherlock makes another sound, not quite as contented, but generally fine-sounding. He’s falling asleep, John thinks. Well: that makes two of them. Between all the wine, and that truly astounding, earth-shattering orgasm just now, he’s about to pass out, himself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Yeah, well, it was memorable.” The bed is still entirely covered in clothes, but that only makes it all the more comfortable to push Sherlock back on until they’re rolling around in a pile of laundry, nipping and licking at each other’s mouths.

Sherlock has John pinned and is sucking shamelessly on his neck, so John can hardly be expected to hear it the first time when Sherlock gasps “When did you first fall for me?”

“What?” John arches, luxuriates in the feel of Sherlock’s lips and teeth over his throat.

“When--” Sherlock bites his chin-- “did you”-- a quick peck on the lips-- “first fall for me?” Sherlock seizes John’s head with both hands, holding him still and staring into his eyes.

“God,” tries John, “Um… is before I ever met you a valid answer? It was before I met you. If love starts at one spot on a timeline and ends at the end of the universe, I was already completely gone on you by the time I saw you in the lab that day.”

“ _John,_ ” moans Sherlock, and moves back down to his neck, and though it devolves from there and ends with quite a few items of clothing that would need to be laundered before being sent to the charity shop, John can’t help but feel that the first day of tidying went very well indeed.

 

 

 

 

 

Sherlock touches his lips to hush him.  “Memorizing.  Your lips, and the way your hair ruffles, like…”  His fingers move from lips to brow, over his hairline.  Swallowing, he mumbles, “Memorizing.”

 

 

 

And hesitates. 

_“You look soft,”_ Mary had said.   _“Vulnerable.”_

That night, John had been as helpless as a mouse in the talons of an owl. He had never felt like that when he caught Sherlock watching him sleep.  Annoyed, maybe.  Certainly  _perplexed._   But never afraid.  Never vulnerable. 

A dawning sense of clarity comes over John.  It’s as if he has been comatose for a long time, trapped in a mire between sleep and waking.  But now he’s awake, and he can’t believe he’s been such a bloody fool for so long.

“Sherlock,” he says softly.  He leans down and settles a hand on Sherlock’s knee.  “Wake up.”

Sherlock exhales deeply and opens his eyes.  A smile tugs at his lips.  “Oh. John.”

John rocks forward, bracing his other hand on the armrest beside Sherlock’s. He stops, watching the sleep vanish from his friend’s eyes.  “Okay?”

On the armrest, Sherlock nudges his little finger against the inside of John’s wrist.  His voice comes out ragged.  “Yes, John,  _John…”_

John pitches forward and crushes his lips down against Sherlock’s.  A sound escapes Sherlock, something like a murmur and something like a sigh, as his hands rise to clasp John’s shoulder, the nape of his neck.  He drags John closer,  _closer,_ and John goes, desperate to fill his senses with Sherlock.  The smell of cigarette smoke and chemicals, all overlaid with a scent John has known so long it simply registers as  _warmth, safety._  Sherlock’s mouth falls open on a gasp and John licks inside, tastes tobacco and milky tea. 

He pulls back with a chuckle.  “You’ve been cheating.”

Sherlock sucks in a breath, face flushed.  “Just the one.”

“You taste awful.”  But he’s leaning in again, greedy for more. 

“You don’t…”  Sherlock loses track of his words for a time.  When John draws away again, smugly studying the effects of his handiwork, he manages, “You don’t seem to mind.”

“Hm.  No.” His hand moves from Sherlock’s knee, skirts up his thigh.  The pilled cotton of his sweatpants rasps against his palm.  “Yeah?”

Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment.  He nods.  “Y-yes. Yes.”

John keeps his eyes on Sherlock’s face as his hand finds the clothed bulge of his cock, already thickening.  Now that he’s made up his mind, he’s determined not to miss a single instant of this.  He drinks in every flicker of expression crossing Sherlock’s face, every blink and bitten lip.  His fingers frame the hard ridge of Sherlock’s cock, thumb rubbing up the shaft, and Sherlock drops his head back with a sigh.   _“John…”_

“I’m sorry it took me so long,” John says.  “Deciding I wanted this.  Stupid of me, really.”

“It was,” Sherlock grunts.  John pauses in his ministrations, quirking an eyebrow, and Sherlock rolls his eyes.  “Don’t be ridiculous.  I know you needed time.”

“Well, which one is it?” John prods.  “Stupid or ridiculous?  Choose wisely.  I  _have_ got my hand on your prick.”

“Both,” Sherlock mutters, petulant.  John draws back his hand and he hastens to amend, “Neither. Neither.  Please, John, for the love of—”

His words break off in a moan as John pulls down the waistband and closes his hand around Sherlock’s cock.  He jumps, hips arching, and John drops his free hand to his waist, pushing him down. “Don’t move, yeah?  I haven’t done this in a while.”

“What…”

John takes pride in robbing Sherlock of speech.  His cock is hard and flushed and leaking, bitter salt when John dips his head to tongue the slit.  Sherlock startles with a gasp and, encouraged, John braces his hands on Sherlock’s hips and slips the head of his cock into his mouth. 

There is a quality unique to dreams – a languid haze overlaying every detail and action, as sweet and unhurried as honey dripping down the comb.  John wants to reclaim that quality, so he takes his time, ignoring Sherlock’s panting pleas as he bobs his head.  Despite his whining demands, Sherlock keeps still, so John risks prying one hand off his hip to encircle the base of his cock. With spit and precome to smooth the way, John’s hand strokes to make up the lack, and his lazy pace soon has Sherlock begging.

“Please, John…”  And John looks up, meets Sherlock’s gaze.  He is staring down, chest rising and falling rapidly, and the brush of their eyes sends a bolt of heat down John’s spine.  Sherlock drops a hand to John’s head, fingers threading through his hair.   His eyes widen.  “Oh.”

John raises his head and Sherlock’s cock slips out of his mouth with a slick sound. “What is it?”

Sherlock touches his lips to hush him.  “Memorizing.  Your lips, and the way your hair ruffles, like…”  His fingers move from lips to brow, over his hairline.  Swallowing, he mumbles, “Memorizing.”

John rises, his legs putting up a twinge of protest.  “Come here.”

Sherlock goes willingly, meeting him in a kiss that sparks a flame deep within John.  He pushes a knee between Sherlock’s thighs and settles his weight there, half-climbing into the chair.  Sherlock twines an arm around his waist and fists his hand in his shirt to anchor him in place as the kiss deepens and their bodies come flush together.  His other arm insinuates between them, fingers fumbling with John’s flies. 

“Wait,” John says against Sherlock’s lips.  He shifts back just enough to undo the buttons of his shirt and shrug it off, toss it to the floor in a puddle of fabric.  The position of his legs makes it difficult to pull down his trousers, but with a bit of squirming, he’s able to extricate himself and kick them off.  The air is cool on his skin as Sherlock drags down his pants and pauses, eyes raking over him.  John checks an urge to cover his scar and shrugs, smiling wanly.  “Well.”

“You’re perfect,” Sherlock murmurs.  “Perfect, John.”

John bites back a groan as Sherlock’s fingers curl around his prick.  His own arousal is a pulse pounding through his body, a drumbeat growing louder with each passing moment.  As Sherlock begins stroking him, he rocks forward, urging him to meet the rise of his hips.  Sherlock gasps as their cocks meet in a stuttering rhythm.  He is all burning heat and angles, each gasp a staccato burst. 

John can feel it – the moment Sherlock begins to unravel.  His thrusts grow erratic, hands scrabbling at John’s back. A trembling courses through him like an electric current as his panting shapes words.  “I’m—I’m close, John—”

John lowers a hand to cover Sherlock’s.  Tearing his gaze away from the sight of their joined hands, he looks up. Sherlock’s expression is all intense focus and rising passion, a combination like flint to the kindling within John. 

“Beautiful,” he whispers, reverential, “god, Sherlock, you’re beautiful…”

Sherlock tenses, stiffens – and cries out, spurting over their fingers. He slumps back in his chair and John wastes no time, smearing his fingers through the come on Sherlock’s fingers and using them to slick his strokes.  Sherlock watches him with heavy-lidded eyes as he pulls himself, feverish, and his need is so strong that he scarcely manages half a dozen strokes before he’s toppling over the brink.  He shudders and pitches forward, burying his face in Sherlock’s neck to muffle his shout. Sherlock runs gentle fingers over the back of his neck as the trembling subsides. 

After, they lay together in the gathering twilight, too spent to move. It is only when John’s legs begin to cramp that he slides off the chair.  He wobbles, lightheaded, and Sherlock hauls himself out of his seat to help him balance. 

John blinks past the white spots dancing across his vision.  “That was…”


End file.
